His Legacy
by 23smiles
Summary: One shot. Harrenhal. Tywin's thoughts on his cupbearer, and his legacy.


**Disclaimer: **GOT belongs to George R. R. Martin, I own nothing. Lines that seem like they're from the show/book, are.

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She was clever, he'd give her that. This brief notion of interest landed her a position as his cupbearer. As the weeks wore on he found the girl possessed fire; in her eyes, and in her words.

"Anyone can be killed." She had said.

Her impudent words angered him, and yet he did nothing. Above all else she intrigued him. It became a game; asking her questions, and waiting for her to trip over her lies. And she was lying to him to be sure. A lowborn girl wouldn't be so quick on their feet when faced with a lord, and she could read.

Lord Baelish made her nervous. Tywin didn't blame the girl. He was crafty, and had a way with words, but his ego preceded him, and his entire person oozed treachery. The weasel had his uses though, and only necessity allowed him an audience.

He didn't like the way Lord Baelish looked at her. His eyes followed the girl's movements as she went about clearing the table, and filling goblets. The conversation never faltered, but his body language gave him away. Tywin didn't think the man was into ones so young, but then he did trade in whores. And, if there was one truth to Littlefinger, he was always looking for profit.

It had been less than a moon and he was already thinking of the girl as his, but why not? She was young and talented; a blank canvas waiting to be painted.

"Who taught you to read?" He asked her one evening.

"My father, my lord." His title seemed to be added as an afterthought, but he brushed it aside. He decided to tell her of his trials with Jamie. How the maester said he would never read, and how he had taught his son anyway.

"He hated me for it, for a time. For a long time. But, he learned." He could see the confusion in her eyes as he finished his anecdote. Tywin understood. Why would her captor talk of something so personal, is what he imagined her thinking. Right now, they were enemies, and the worst thing you could to an enemy was humanize them. It was harder to hate a person than an ideal.

"Where is your father? Is he alive?" He asked her. She only mustered a small shake of her head.

"Who was he?"

"A…stonemason." She answered hesitantly.

"A stonemason who could read?" He let the doubt creep into his voice.

"He taught himself." She replied.

"Quite a man." Despite her lies, her demeanor had dramatically changed as soon as he brought up her father. He decided to probe further. Any information could be useful at any time.

"What killed him?" She looked right at him then.

"Loyalty." This time her voice held no hesitation, but her eyes were haunted. He knew that look. He'd seen it in many people. It was the look of love, loss, and the search for something to fill the gap. This was the opportunity Tywin had been looking for. First he praised her. Gods knew she needed a bit of recognition.

"You're a sharp little thing, aren't you?" He said, allowing a hint of a smile to grace his features.

It worked, because she asked him a question next; testing how far he'd let her go, how many layers he'd let fall. He complied willingly, telling her about his own father in return. She reminded him of a little wolf, and it was going to take a lot to win her trust, but Tywin was a man of patience, and he knew the wait would be worth it.

"This will be my last war. Win or lose."

"Have you ever lost before?"

"Do you think I'd be in my position of I'd lost a war?" He raised an eyebrow at her, and she shook her head.

"This is the one I'll be remembered for. The War of Five Kings they're calling it. My legacy will be determined in the coming months. Do you know what legacy means?" The girl didn't respond.

"It's what you pass down to your children, and your children's children. It's what remains of you when you're gone." Yet, even as he said the words he didn't want to believe them.

He indulged her again, telling her the story of Harren the Black, and his fatal downfall. In stark contrast to his children she hung onto his every word, and even expressed her interest in the female warriors.

"Aren't most girls interested in the pretty maidens from the songs; Jonquil with flowers in her hair?"

"Most girls are idiots." He laughed at that.

Legacy. Did his legacy have to be tied so closely to his children? Were they really all he would leave behind? His eldest son, Jamie, was devastatingly handsome, and a renowned swordsmen. But, he had no mind for politics, flocking to the Kingsguard as soon as he could. His daughter Cersei was no better. He had given her a King, and made her a Queen, but what did she do? Maybe she had once had ambitions, but she had squandered it all for love, or the lack thereof. Instead of becoming the true power behind the crown, she had become bitter, and let her emotions run rampant. Now she couldn't see beyond the spoiled brat that lived to ruin all he'd worked for. And Tyrion. He reluctantly acknowledged that he was by far the most cunning of his children, and it seemed he was able to bring Joffrey to heel, which was more than he could say for his sister. But, he would never leave the future of the Lannister name in the hands of the creature who put his mother in the grave, and a whoremonger no less.

He dismissed her then, letting her take what she wanted of his meal.

"And girl? Milord." She turned around, puzzled.

"Lowborn girls say milord, not my lord. If you're going to pose as a commoner you should do it properly." Tywin couldn't help himself. He finally had a willing student, and he wanted to test her. And she did not disappoint.

"My mother served Lady Dustin for many years my lord. She taught me how to speak proper— properly!" It took all his self control to not let the amusement show on his face, and even then he was sure she could read it in his eyes.

"You're too smart for your own good. Has anyone told you that?"

"Yes." She didn't bother trying to hide the quirk of her lips, or the satisfaction in her voice.

"Go on." Her growing boldness was a sign she was warming up to him on some level, and he let a hint of softness creep into his words for her efforts.

The little wolf was pure raw energy just waiting to be harnessed. If he could cultivate her, and shape her she might one day roar like a lion. The girl may not have been his blood, but what did that matter in the end? Her blood was dead, and he was here now. He could give her what she wanted most, and she could become the legacy he truly desired.

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